Jin

They’re occupying the sidewalk in front of his hotel in much the same way that Stalin occupied Poland. Four of them, jackets tight over muscle and eyes blackly sunglassed: the meat puppets who, in any decent movie, would be merely mooks.

This isn’t a movie, and Jin’s knowledge of the arts martial extends no further than classes at the Y. Social combat, then, he thinks with disgruntlement. His phone is already out.

Flash mobs are passé enough to be sort of ironic by now, so he’s able to procure sufficient twitterie on brief notice. Jin slips through, nothing but another mook.